


Engraved Promises

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, fluff of the madatobi sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: They aren’t men built for proclamations of love—or at least Tobirama isn’t—but he thinks that he’s closer now than ever to the admission.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 8
Kudos: 181





	Engraved Promises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raendown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raendown/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Rae! <3

Quiet rustling comes from the closet two rooms down the hall. The shifting of clothing and the clink of armor resounds as one set of ceramic plates is inspected and discarded right after the next . There’s a growing freneticism to the rhythm, like Madara’s mental stability is cracking with each unsuccessful search.

Tobirama grins. It likely is. 

Amused and far too fond, he sweeps away the metal shavings from his engraving on the last link of Madara’s gunbai chain. The little curls of tamahagane catch at his calluses before falling to the floor to join the growing discard pile.

The distant rustling grows more frantic until finally—

“Senju,” Madara hisses in the voice Tobirama loves most. No matter the context, that particular tone always means trouble.

Instead of answering, Tobirama continues his work.

He goes to suck off a pinprick of blood from the pad of his thumb, then thinks better of it. The hiraishin seal he devised so long ago never required a binding agent, but the chakra in his veins is potent and he would be remiss not to use every iota of that power in protecting those closest to his heart. He wipes it into the grooves he carved out—one for each link of chain, one for each blade. There. Like carbon and iron sand, his blood and his seal work will combine to make a far stronger bond than either alone.

Another explosive flurry of activity from down the hall ratchets up into a strong baritone. “Damn it, Tobirama, where are my weapons?”

Again, Tobirama keeps his peace, dimpled cheeks beginning to burn and chest hitching in silence.

Most of his morning has been spent in service to this ridiculous disaster of a man he’s chosen to share his life with—a burden he would gladly shoulder time and time again. The futon before him is littered with kunai, shuriken, kusarigama, and the one katana Madara keeps only because some sorry bastard managed to stick him with it a decade ago. These are all pieces of his husband. They’re snapshots of his life and never far from his hand.

Tobirama strokes the well-worn leather of Madara’s gunbai handle, supple and shiny with the oil of generations of handling. It’s nice to hold the trappings of war once aimed at his Anija and feed his own heart into the metal knowing that they now serve to protect. Peace was not without cost, mistakes were made on both sides, and yet, trudging through the leagues of bloodshed, somehow they all managed to make it through. Together.

They aren’t men built for proclamations of love—or at least Tobirama isn’t—but he thinks that he’s closer now than ever to the admission.

A final once over and he sets the gunbai down on the futon, satisfied.

No matter where Madara battles, the hiraishin seal carved into every single weapon he owns will bring Tobirama to him.

“Fuck!” A jarring crash makes the floor shudder. Chakra lashes, hot and beckoning despite the threat in it. “You think you’ve won. You think you can best me if I’m unarmed, but there’s one thing you didn’t account for,” Madara roars, soon followed by his thundering footfalls.

Interest piqued, Tobirama brushes off his knees and wipes his hands on the nearest pillowcase. “And what would that be?” he finally calls out.

In less than the space of a heartbeat, Madara’s silhouette fills the doorway, every bit as broad and imposing in a threadbare yukata as he is in full armor. “My body is the most powerful weapon of all,” he announces, eyes black and glinting in triumph.

All thought stops. Tobirama blinks long and slow before he can even process that drivel. 

Realizing what he said only after the fact, Madara clears his throat and drags his hand down his face so hard Tobirama swears he can smell the friction burn. “Please don’t repeat that.”

“Oh, I’m telling Izuna as soon as he’s back from Wave,” Tobirama replies. “Cherish your remaining days.”

The brat is going to be insufferable for weeks and Tobirama for one can’t wait to sift through the wreckage of Madara’s ego.

Love might have burrowed a home in his heart, but spite was there first.

“Why are you in his room, anyways?” Madara rolls on, likely in hopes that the subject will pass. It won’t. An admirable attempt, though.

Tobirama rises from the floor and tugs his pilfered yukata back to rights. It doesn’t billow around him, though the rich, indigo fabric is rather broader at the shoulders than his own clothing. Madara prefers his sleeping garb loose and short, which translates to ‘falling at mid-thigh’ on Tobirama.

Shrugging, he pointedly ignores the whisper of fabric as it slips off one shoulder. “You were sleeping and I had work to do,” he says simply, motioning at the spread of weapons displayed amongst Izuna’s absurdly expensive sheets. “My markers are more durable when they’re etched by hand.”

He doesn’t say ‘I want to be with you always.’ He doesn’t say ‘if you ever fall, we will fall together.’

He doesn’t have to.

Madara knows with one glance what this all means.

His face softens into the subtle smile Tobirama knows best—the one that speaks to the more gentle connection they share beneath all of the arguments and posturing. Tossing his haphazard hair over his shoulder, Madara skirts the futon entirely and closes the distance between them.

Red cotton pulls tight to reveal a deep V of chest with each step and Tobirama can’t help but think his sleeping yukata suits this man far better than himself. The dark line of hair trailing down his abdominals and further is almost as enticing as the scars that interrupt its path. 

“You know he’s going to slit your throat in your sleep for screwing with his sheets, right?” Madara asks. His voice stays level, but there’s a heaviness to his bearing that usually precludes some of their more tender moments. His hands settle hot on Tobirama’s waist. Powerful. Beloved. 

“That would be unfortunate for him, considering I sleep well armed,” Tobirama points out, stroking Madara’s shoulder, following the line of his collarbone, and coming to rest on the impressive swell of his chest. “Thank you for reminding me of this last weapon,” he teases, voice dropping into something less instigative and closer to a confession.

“It would be a shame if I missed the most important one.”

With that, he feeds chakra into his palm and takes heart in the hiraishin anchor that settles soul deep between them.


End file.
